It sits on the corner of my desk, rotting away with time. I’ve not used it recently, but still, it holds a shine. I keep it sharp. As sharp as my wit. Were either to dull, I would be long dead.

With great care, I pull it from it’s sheath. The metal body rasping against the stiff leather. It’s been so long, and yet it feels the same. The balance is still perfect, sitting in my hand like an extension of my arm. I could wield it all day long.

The ornate decorations along the pommel have faded, covered with the dust and destruction of eons, but their brilliance still shows through. A dragon coils along the hilt, twisting from tail to tip. His eyes still hold that sparkle as I turn the length. They call out to me, but it’s been so long, and I’ve been so sick.

But before I place it back in it’s sheath, I feel an urge. The urge to test it’s tip. See if it, and I, still hold our edge. From under my desk I retrieve several sheets of paper, and with a flick of my wrist and a splatter of ink, I begin to write.